Stone of Help (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  Happily, the mistress was not in to hear that. A little girl Deirdre had seen tending the sheep paused to wipe her hands and Caranoe bellowed, “Now, you little goose! Get it now!”

  The girl ran to a work table and grabbed a handful of newly baked cakes, upsetting the tray and spilling the rest on the floor. Deirdre winced, knowing how long it took to prepare those cakes and that now it would have to be done all over again.

  “Lord Caranoe, please, I don’t really want pastry,” she protested in spite of the fact that she was continually hungry.

  “Of course you do,” he insisted, handing her one and popping another in his mouth. “C’m’ere,” he mumbled, blowing out crumbs.

  She devoured the pastry, uneasily allowing him to take her hand and parade her through the courtyard before the servants and guards. When he took her to a footbridge spanning the stream, she objected, “Lord Caranoe, I’m not allowed to leave the courtyard.”

  “You can go anywhere with me.” His eyes tended to squint when he got impatient or angry, so that he was forever squinting.

  “But, my lord, I must be nearby to tend the baby’s needs,” she reminded him.

  “The brat can wait,” he snapped. Deirdre’s stomach tightened. Some-how, this was going all wrong.

  He led her to the edge of a field where they could watch slaves harvest rocks from the treacherous cliffs. “I am the master of all these men,” he said arrogantly, and Deirdre dropped her shoulders in dismay.

  “My lord, isn’t that reason to treat them with kindness?” she asked.

  He laughed. “That’s reason to treat them however I please. The weaker are ruled by the stronger. That’s the law of the whole world.” He looked at her with laughing contempt, and his eyes revealed that, to him, she was only another slave to control. She saw he was stronger than she, for the goodness in her was not mature enough, not disciplined enough to overcome the attitudes entrenched in him. No—reforming Caranoe was not the task for her.

  She turned. “I must return to the kitchen now.”

  He held her arm. “No. Not yet.”

  “Lord Caranoe, if you don’t let me go, you’ll get me trouble from the kitchen mistress. Is that how you show your affection for me?” she asked pointedly.

  Pouting, he followed her back to the courtyard, where she took up her bucket of water. “I’d show you plenty for your time with me,” he argued. “What do you like, Goldie? Rich food? Gold rings? Dresses and soft shoes? I can give you all those things.”

  She looked down at her bare feet, only too aware that once she had all those things. “I don’t want any of that.”

  “No? What do you want?”

  She looked past Caranoe, past stone walls, past fields to the west, and said, “My husband and my home.”

  “Fool!” he spat, grabbing her wrist. Her bucket spilled over their feet. “I say you will come with me now!”

  “No!” She steeled her legs.

  A voice behind them said, “Caranoe, you will excuse us while I speak with this servant.”

  They both pivoted to face Lord Troyce, two large hounds with wagging tails at his side. Caranoe released her and bowed stiffly to him. Then with a threatening glance at her, he strode away.

  Lord Troyce waited until he was out of earshot before gesturing toward her spilled bucket. “Draw your water.”

  Deirdre bowed unsteadily and fumbled for the bucket. He stepped closer and said quietly, “There is a rumor afoot that Old Josef’s death was somehow extraordinary. Do you know anything of this?”

  Deirdre held her breath. Dare she try to tell him? “A little, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Yes?” He stood waiting.

  “After he died,” she faltered, “he seemed to change . . . I mean, his appearance. He looked different.” Lord Troyce raised his brows. Deirdre explained, “That is, he looked very young and strong and healthy in death—so different than he looked alive, though Sevter said it was indeed Josef.”

  “Sevter saw it also?” he asked.

  “Yes. And the two guards who buried him.”

  Lord Troyce was silent as Deirdre drew the water and set the bucket on the ground. Then he asked, “What do you make of this?”

  “My lord . . . I don’t know.”

  “You shared quarters with him. You knew his beliefs. How would you account for what happened to him?” His intelligent eyes narrowed as he waited for her response.

  Deirdre nervously patted one hound. “Lord Troyce, I really don’t know. But the power of God was with him. Sevter said it proved he was right all along.”

  He smiled. “You think, then, that God did it?”

  Deirdre hesitated. Dare she ally herself with miserable, lowly Josef before Lord Troyce, who had the power to release her? She inhaled and said, “Yes.”

  Troyce smiled faintly, glancing around the courtyard. No one else presumed to listen in. “I’m glad to hear that . . . because, you see, I was one of Old Josef’s first converts.”

  “You?” Deirdre almost knocked over the bucket again.

  “Yes.” He looked back toward the palace. “I must go now, but we’ll talk more of this later. Meanwhile, this much I can do for you: I will prevent Caranoe from harassing you further.” He nodded curtly and was gone, Sheva’s hounds padding after him.

  Deirdre hauled the bucket into the kitchen and dumped the water into a large iron kettle over the fire. As she dropped in the rags one by one, she darted a look toward the head cook. “Mistress . . . I noticed the—the druds taking rocks from the cliffs and piling them next to the stream. Why are they doing that?”

  “The Surchataine needs more fields. They are terracing the eastern slopes for cultivation. That’s what the rocks are for,” the mistress answered in a brittle voice, picking up ruined pastries from the floor. “Do you know who did this?” she demanded.

  “Lord Caranoe was in here earlier, helping himself,” Deirdre replied.

  “Ohh—that man—” the cook muttered under her breath.

  Watching the water boil, Deirdre wondered aloud, “Why were they stacking the rocks by the stream?”

  “Because that’s where they were ordered!” the cook snapped. “Now be quick with those things so you can help me make more pastry for tonight!”

  “Yes, mistress,” Deirdre sighed, dumping in all the rest of the rags at once.

  As Deirdre helped Bettina serve dinner that evening, she watched Lord Troyce from under her brows. Sheva leaned toward him, placing her hand on his arm. “I wish to go falconing tomorrow. Did you see the new hawk Brude gave me?” she asked as if baiting him.

  “Yes, my lady. She’s beautiful,” Troyce agreed unenthusiastically, and Brude beamed.

  Sheva paused, watching Troyce with a slight, calculating smile. Then she asked prettily, “What do you think, Troyce? Should I give the water mill to Brude?” Those at table listened with interest, especially Lord Brude.

  Troyce hesitated, wiping his mouth with his cloth. “Lord Brude would certainly manage it efficiently,” he observed, “but we must remember that it has belonged to Oral’s family ever since being built by his great-grandfather. As Oral is loyal to my lady, and pays his taxes, I do not see that we should strip him of his inheritance.”

  Brude said quickly, “Permit me to point out to my lady’s administrator that Oral pays taxes of only thirty percent. Since I could operate it at a greater profit, I would most gladly pay taxes of forty percent . . . if given the opportunity.”

  Sheva’s face shone with approval. “Wouldn’t it be prudent to give it to Brude, Troyce?”

  He tightened his lips, and Deirdre could see perspiration forming on his forehead. “It would not serve justice, my lady,” he said, eyes on the table.

  “I am the only one you should be concerned about serving,” she pointed out. “You may have the mill, Brude.” It was almost as if she sought Troyce’s counsel solely to demonstrate that she could override him.

  “Oh, thank you, Surchataine!” Brude breathed in ador
ation. Troyce chose not to take a stand over Oral’s inheritance and remained silent.

  “Go write up the proper paper,” Sheva ordered him. “We will give it to Brude before he leaves tonight.” Troyce slowly rose with downcast eyes while Brude gushed his gratitude to the Surchataine.

  Troubled, Deirdre watched Troyce go up the stairs. He had said he was a believer. Yet he obeyed Sheva in whatever she demanded, and even Deirdre could see that her goals had nothing to do with Christ. Troyce certainly seemed to be a mule pulling two wagons.

  As he returned with the legal paper, his eyes happened to meet Deirdre’s over Sheva’s head, and he quickly looked away. Whom do you really serve, Troyce? she wondered.

  After the guests had left, Deirdre and Bettina began clearing the table. Having eaten nothing but the pastry all day, Deirdre looked down at the ham shank with tears in her eyes. She looked up toward the window where Bettina was tossing out the sauce. Lord, throwing all this good food to the dogs isn’t right! Have mercy on those who are hungry here! Deirdre pleaded inwardly, without even realizing that she wasn’t praying just for herself anymore.

  Bettina turned back toward the table and stiffened. “Yes, mistress?”

  Deirdre turned to see the kitchen mistress standing at the doors. “You may go, Bettina. Goldie will finish clearing the table,” she said.

  “Thank you, mistress,” Bettina curtsied and left without a second look at the large, cluttered table. Deirdre slowly resumed gathering plates.

  The mistress stood at the door until Bettina had gone. Glancing up, Deirdre saw that all the other servants had retired as well, leaving her alone to clean up the table and kitchen. Strangling a complaint, she resolved to just get it done.

  Still the mistress stood there. Deirdre glanced up. “Yes, mistress?”

  The woman shifted, then in a very low voice said, “You are hungry.”

  “Yes,” Deirdre breathed, “so very hungry—!”

  “Shh!” The mistress cut her off, glancing over her shoulder, then she grumbled, “I don’t slave all day to feed dogs. Eat what you want from the table, then gather all the rest and place it under the stairs out back. Someone will come ’round for it tonight. But if you’re caught, Goldie, you’re on your own!”

  “Thank you, mistress! Thank you!” Deirdre breathed with all the gratitude in her being.

  The mistress eyed her almost in satisfaction, then nodded and retired herself for the night.

  That evening Deirdre feasted on ham, beans and dried fruit compote. To allay any suspicions, she put out enough for the dogs to be seen eating outside the window. Then she gathered bowlfuls of leftovers, covered them tightly with cloths, and stealthily slipped them under the wooden stairs out back of the kitchen.

  Full and happy, Deirdre nestled Arund in her corner of the warm kitchen and peeked through the shutters. It had begun to snow—the first of the season. She smiled. What providential timing for her to be allowed to sleep and eat here, with Josef gone and winter arriving. Inwardly, Deirdre knew it was not happenstance. It was beyond her even to guess what God might do next.

  Chapter 13

  Roman sat on his horse and looked up at the high, grey stone walls. The massive wooden gates still hung in pieces around the battering ram, the wheels of which had sunk deep into the earth. Evidently, the machinists had been unable to unlock the mystery of its mechanism. He wondered vaguely if they had given up on it. They were not here now.

  The robe was there, however. That splendid golden robe was still suspended between heaven and earth. No man had dared to remove it from the post on which Galapos had tossed it.

  With stinging eyes, Roman surveyed the deserted outpost, remarking the detailed preservation of their last battle scene. It stood as a mute testimony of a mighty answer to a desperate prayer.

  At that, he bit his lip and looked down. He knew what he should do. But if he humbled his spirit and prayed, he felt sure God would send him back to Westford. And he could not—he just could not—give up now. He had not yet reached his end.

  He directed his horse through the rubble of the gates. At least the outpost would provide shelter from the night. He stabled the animal, then listlessly wandered through the cool stone corridors until he found his former quarters. Old habits die hard, he thought ruefully as he sat on the hard cot to eat his bread. Then he lay down, fully alert, to try to sleep.

  His mind raced ahead to speculate on his meeting with Karel. How would he handle the old Surchatain?—assuming he was indeed alive. As the possibilities paraded themselves before him, he grew distraught. Karel must not be allowed to depose Galapos, yet . . . to kill the old ruler outright . . . he could not. He still had that much respect for the man he had known for so long as Deirdre’s father. Yet, what if the old Surchatain had been corrupted beyond hope? And what if he were corrupting Deirdre . . . ?

  When at last he slept, he dreamed weird and troubling dreams. He was in a lonely forest, following Deirdre’s footprints on a path. On the way, he saw the mists before him come together to form an unheard-of creature with fangs and oozing, slimy skin. It puffed itself up to block his path, then extended its green neck toward Roman to fasten its jaws on his arm. Crying out with the pain of it, he plunged his sword into its soft underbelly. The monster opened its jaws, but only to laugh, then with a flick of its tail knocked Roman farther down the path.

  Straining to see in the gloom, he found her prints again and raised himself. Derisive laughter sounded before him, and he jerked his head up. There in the mists stood Tremaine. “I owe you this, guardian!” he declared, lifting his sword.

  “No! You’re dead!” Roman insisted.

  “As you are now!” Tremaine promised with a mighty swing. Helpless, Roman felt the sear of metal through his throat and he was choking on blood. He felt himself fall as dead, but his mind did not cease or rest. From where he lay, he could see the prints. He picked himself up to follow them once more.

  As the mists began to coalesce again into a form, he gripped his sword tensely. But there before him stood Galapos in shining mail.

  “Galapos—father—” moaned Roman.

  “Bastard, I’m not your father!” retorted Galapos. “You are a stupid, cowardly fool, and I will have nothing more to do with you. I wish I had left you to starve on the streets or be hanged! You are removed from your post as Commander and banished from Lystra. Go!” With that command he seized Roman by the neck and flung him down the road.

  Blinded by tears, Roman wandered farther until he looked up to see himself before a grand palace. The guard at the gate, dressed in finery like the Cohort, looked down at him and said, “What do you want, peasant?”

  Gathering the vestiges of his will, he replied, “I have come for Deirdre.”

  “Really?” the guard smirked, but he led Roman into the great audience hall. There on a glorious golden throne sat Karel, draped in the golden mantle. Deirdre sat perched on his lap with her arms around his neck. They both looked up in amusement as Roman approached.

  “You think to have my daughter?” laughed Karel. “You? A common, bastard soldier?” At which came peals of laughter from invisible faces.

  Roman held out his arms, pleading with his last breath: “Deirdre, my love—”

  “You ugly thing!” she declared, wrinkling her nose. “You’re a fool to come after me this way. Leave me alone!”

  Roman awakened sobbing and shouting, bruising his fists on the frame of the cot. When he realized it was only a dream, he lay down again, empty and aching, to seek what he needed in sleep.

  In the morning, he awoke already weary. He got up and prepared himself to ride reluctantly for a man on a mission. After eating a light breakfast from his provisions, he paused to think through his objectives again. Why was he hesitating? His determination—or stubbornness—alone impelled him out of the gates on a northward course.

  The plain was still scarred and trashed from the battle months before. Roman noted a broken water pot, a reminder of their deliveran
ce, but turned his eyes away and wrapped his cloak more tightly around him. It had gotten much colder overnight.

  He rode watchfully through the Pass, but all was dead or still. Even the forest beyond appeared empty and void. Its deadness seemed to seep into his mind, for soon he rode without thinking or seeing. He went on for hours in this state, traveling for the sake of traveling, marking time by the state of his horse’s weariness. There was no sun in the heavy grey skies to guide him, and the day did not brighten as it progressed.

  His dullness began to clear away as he drew close to the outskirts of Corona. He formed a tentative plan: If Karel was here, he would certainly be occupying Tremaine’s palace. Somehow, Roman would have to gain entry and . . . what? He did not know.

  His senses came to full alert as he rode into the jostling crowds of Corona. The disintegration of the city was woefully apparent. Most of the legitimate businesses had been vacated but left standing to be overrun by squatters. Yet the streets were bustling with business. A dirty prostitute, spotting Roman, motioned to him and opened her bodice in supposed enticement. He recoiled in disgust and pity.

  As he rode up the thoroughfare, he witnessed a casual murder and open looting. A few renegades on the street eyed him, but he stared back stonily and no one accosted him. With difficulty, he directed his horse around a drunken group attempting to batter down a door. Then he found the side street which led to the best inn he knew. For now, he needed hot food and drink. Then he would consider how to deal with Karel.

  The inn was still open. Roman stabled his skittish horse but took all of his gear with him into the dining room. It was crowded and stuffy, occupied by a few wary-eyed merchants, a few jaded women, but mostly men of unknown occupations. Roman was ignored by the proprietor and serving girls, so he got up and leaned over the bar.

  “I want stew and ale,” he told the proprietor.

  “Twenty-five pieces,” the owner said. Roman, shocked at the price, handed him a royal. He slopped a bowlful from an iron kettle and shoved it and a mug toward Roman.

  “You owe me some money,” Roman reminded him. The proprietor grudgingly returned him his change.